


Shoot the Sun, Hang the Moon

by grimcognito



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016), 좋은 놈 나쁜 놈 이상한 놈 | The Good The Bad The Weird (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Crossover, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:37:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8815501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimcognito/pseuds/grimcognito
Summary: While recovering from their wounds in Rose Creek, Billy and Goodnight think back on how they got to where they are. How Park Chang-Yi and Doug Robicheaux became Billy and Goodnight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Desert Road](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8258431) by [shadowkeeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowkeeper/pseuds/shadowkeeper). 



> You don't need to have seen The Good The Bad The Weird, but it will help to understand a lot Billy's backstory here, and I do recommend it! It's a fantastic movie (also a Western) and Byung-Hun Lee does an amazing job as a lead character in it. It's available to watch on Netflix! 
> 
> There are some timeline issues, but we'll pretend The Good The Bad The Weird doesn't have cars and more modern weaponry, and call it even. None of that effects this story anyhow. Please note that turning Park Chang-Yi into Billy's backstory means he wears full gloves (for a good reason), and has a scar on his left temple and cheek.

Waking up wasn't so much a rise into consciousness as it was a hard yank to the surface and Park Chang-Yi sucked in a harsh breath, surprised the air wasn't scorching as he'd expected. He groaned and after a few tries, managed to get his eyes open, squinting at the ceiling and waiting for the wooden boards to stop swimming around his vision. He should be furious. He had been, right? Had let that rage fuel him. Which had led to him being riddled with bullets. 

No, wait. That wasn't right. There were years between then and now, Park Chang-Yi was dead, abandoned on a desolate stretch of sand under endless blue. He was Billy Rocks now. Those were still bullet wounds riddling his chest though. The ache was just as horrible as it had been the first time. He grit his teeth against a groan, slowly forcing himself to relax and breathing carefully until he could think past the pain.

Rose Creek. Gatling gun. Goodnight riding back to warn them. 

Goodnight. 

He'd fallen off the roof, red blossoms already spreading where he'd been shot, and Billy had watched him stumble, the wood of the torched bell tower splintering instead of holding him up. Slumped against the sandbags they'd laughed behind just minutes before, Billy hadn't been able to move. Hadn't been able to do anything other than whisper Goody's name in a weak breath, so sure it would be his last.

If this was the afterlife, it looked, and smelled, disappointingly like a sick room with patched up walls. Looks like he'd crawled out of Death's grip again, if just barely. It seemed to be a habit of his at this point. He needed to know if Goody had made it too, his breath going quick and shallow enough to drive spikes of pain all along his chest at the odds of it. His lips moved, but words wouldn't form, just a weak noise, so useless it pissed him off. 

Moving hurt, but anger was an excellent way to focus past pain, something he hadn't had to rely on in years but had never forgotten. Turning his head one way revealed a wall a few feet away, with a piss pot tucked in the corner. Looking the other way was more of an effort, and he bared his teeth at the pull on his wounds, but it was worthwhile to see the there was an occupied cot next to his, and the edge of another across from it. Less worthwhile was realizing it was Faraday in the cot, drooling onto his pillow, half his face hidden under bandages. Just at the edge of his vision, Billy could see Jack Horne, sitting propped up in his cot across from Faraday's but dozing, his breath wheezing in and out with a slight whistle. 

There must be a cot across from his own then. Goody would be in it. He had to be. Billy struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, one nearly giving out on him as pain lanced through his back, right below his shoulder blade. His persistence was rewarded with a bout of nausea and the room tilting alarmingly. It wasn't enough though, all that effort and he'd barely managed to raise his head a few inches. Unacceptable. Jaw clenched so tight he could almost hear his teeth creaking under the strain, he swallowed down a scream and forced his unwilling body upright and managed to shove himself back far enough to use his pillows to prop himself up. 

Bursts of bright and black spots swam in his vision and Billy spent a moment wondering if his eyes were open or closed as he tried to hold down whatever contents of his stomach were trying to claw their way up his throat. Time dragged out, meaningless apart from the drag of pulling air in and letting it back out while his body clamored to remind him exactly how idiotic he was. Once he could focus past the ringing in his ears, he looked up, a hard knot in his gut loosening at the sight of Goodnight resting under a clean sheet. Bandages criss-crossed over what was visible of his chest and shoulders, hints of pale, freckled skin peeking between the strips of linen.

Goodnight's chest rose and fell gently as he breathed and relief swept through Billy in a wave that left him feeling jittery and almost breathless. Everything hurt, he was sweaty and exhausted from nothing more than sitting up in bed, and he could only account for four of the seven men he'd fought together with, but Goody was there. He was breathing and alive and it was enough for now. Billy tipped his head back to rest against the wall and let his body relax as much as he could, watching Goody through half-lidded eyes as his breathing slowed and steadied. 

Sleep pulled at him, but Goodnight was lying too still, too quiet, too damned frail looking for Billy to let himself close his eyes. Instead, he watched, and thought back on how he'd gotten here, how he'd gotten so attached to this walking contradiction of a man.

Goody claimed it was the infamous bar fight, but for Billy it really started on a ship to California, where he'd felt hollowed out and empty of the rage he'd run on for so long. His men all scattered or dead, his former employer dead by his hand, all for the chance at redemption and revenge that had gotten him nothing in the end. He'd crawled his way out of that desert and into the care of a tiny village healer that had never heard his name. Two months before he was able to walk on his own again, and by then, his rage had dwindled, drifting through his grasp like smoke and leaving him empty. 

He discovered disguising himself was easy enough when the world thought he was dead, and it was a fairly simple matter to recover the gold and cash he'd hidden away. He bought his way into China and onto a boat to America, with enough left to live comfortably wherever he landed. Changed his name to one the English-speaking couldn't possibly butcher, and let Park Chang-Yi die at the edge of the ocean as Billy Rocks stepped onto California soil.

That emptiness stayed with him though, carved out under his ribcage. Killing the fools that assumed he was an easy target didn't help, nor did the deaths of their employers. It did get his face slapped on wanted posters, with a measly three hundred dollar reward. He'd have been insulted if he'd cared enough to bother. The reward rose to five hundred after he killed the first three bounty hunters that had come to collect, but he got better at hiding too. Wasn't hard once he realized that if he stopped staring directly at people, their gaze would slide right past him. The difficult part was finding the few willing to take money from a man who didn't look like them, who didn't work under a white master. 

Work was hard to come by for the same reasons, and he wasn't desperate enough to fall into the trappings of indentured servitude and endless hard labor. Without the fear of retribution or patience for white men's ideas of superiority, he would have slit enough throats to triple his bounty if he'd tried those means of work anyhow. So the money he'd brought carried him through, dwindling faster than it should as room rates suddenly tripled when he was paying. Food and supplies were just as difficult, and he learned that it was easier to afford, despite the blow to his pride and personal dignity, if he pretended to be purchasing goods as a servant.

It chafed enough that he walked out of a shitty little crapheap of a general store after being charged far too much, and right into a quick draw contest just to let off some steam. No one took him seriously at first and he swept through the rounds, leaving a few bullets lighter and several dollars richer. It was easy money, so far beneath his level of skill it was laughable, but a better option than any other he had. So he kept at it, town after dusty town, he did the rounds and made sure to leave before anyone could kick up too much of a fuss over losing. 

Not that these people needed an excuse to get worked up over his very existence. Merchants, bartenders, and drunkards alike all had an opinion on where he should be, and it was never where he was, minding his own and having a drink. It was one such occasion that led to the bar fight Goodnight always liked to bring up, a fondness in his voice that definitely didn't exist anywhere near the actual incident.

The way Goody told it, he and Billy had hit it off right then, falling into sync like they'd known their destinies were entwined. It couldn't be further from the truth. Goodnight might even explain that too, if anyone asked, but it's nearing on a decade and he has yet to hear anyone ask Goodnight Robicheaux to talk more.

Billy couldn't even remember how it started, but he's been through a hundred similar situations since arriving in America, the details didn't matter much. What did matter was how quickly things had escalated into violence. Maybe he'd been itching for a real fight, maybe he'd been tired of looking down and playing his assumed part. Maybe he'd stared right back in some man's bulging-eyed, red-face fury and smirked, cocky enough to get him to throw a punch. What he does remember with clarity is how satisfying it had been to really let loose, to feel flesh and bone give under his fists and see the fear in their eyes as they realized their mistake.

The first man had gone down in a heap, not expecting the force behind Billy's punch. His friend was quicker, but Billy ducked the punch and snagged the leg of a nearby stool in one motion. It wasn't good for much more than firewood after he'd smashed it over the man's head. One fool thought he was sneaky and tried to reach for a gun while seated. A nearby dinner knife and a snap of the wrist was all Billy needed to solve that problem. The man shrieked as the knife pinned his hand to the table with a heavy thud, the blade embedded deep enough to keep him there. He was still screaming when Billy had to duck behind an overturned table to avoid getting shot. He threw another chair over his makeshift shield and took advantage of the distraction to roll away from the table and fire off two shots. One caught a man between the eyes, the other man took it in the chest. 

The barkeep was gone, probably to get the sheriff, or maybe passed out behind the bar, but there was no sign of movement. The man near him was still screaming curses so Billy rolled his eyes and kicked him in the jaw just to shut him up. He sneered down at the man's slumped form and wondered if he'd have time to steal a bottle just to get the drink he'd wanted. 

His gun was back in his hand without a thought and aimed toward a shadowed corner near the stairs at the rough drawl of a voice. "Well now, _that_ was a hell of a show." 

 

Billy's lips twitched up at the edges with the memory. Never in his life had he looked back and been so glad he hadn't shot someone who'd startled him. The sun had shifted, blocks of light from the window now several feet further across the floor, and though Billy didn't remember dozing off, he must have. Goody hadn't budged a bit, but his chest still rose and fell without a hitch, so Billy tried to recapture his train of thought. 

Right, the barfight. Kicking a man to shut him up. Goody talking his way right into danger, as he was wont to do. 

 

Billy had kept the gun trained on the speaker, keeping his expression blank. "I could continue it." 

The man grinned and spread his hands, held over the table and away from the gun Billy could see at his hip. "I'm sure you could, Mr. Rocks, but I may just be your ticket out of here. The barkeep's gone and had a fainting spell. Knocked his head on the bar, which means we have a moment or two longer than we would have before some good citizen drags the sheriff out of his nap. You could shoot me and be the one Asian trying to ride out of town while there's a manhunt on for you, or we could ride together and go practically unseen." 

"Right into a Deputy's office." Billy shot back, eyes narrowed.

The man blinked, as if the idea was a new one to him, and rubbed a hand over his goatee. "Well shit, that would have been damned clever. Still feel like you'd have shot me before I could manage it though." He waved away the idea like it was a bothersome fly. Billy was tempted to shoot him just to shut him up, but unfortunately he had a good point about escaping town. "No, I just appreciate a man trying to get a drink without a fuss. Not your fault these men were out of line. Can't say the sheriff will see it that way though." 

There were really only two options; either try running on his own (whether he shot this man before hand was still up in the air,) or agree to his terms, which were suspicious at best. Bounty hunters didn't go helping out men with prices on their heads unless it was a trick, and Billy knew a bounty hunter when he saw one. They all had the same kind of self-confident swagger and too-sharp eyes. This man's eyes were a little sharper than most, bright with nerves that betrayed his overly casual attitude. 

"What will it cost?" 

Again, the question seemed to throw the man a bit, like he'd been too distracted to think of a lie beforehand. Billy began to wonder if he'd guessed wrong and this was just a man with more bravado and stupid ideas than brains. "Well, the fine company of an interesting travel companion for a few days. Travelling solo is nice but makes for poor conversation." 

Billy doubted that, this man could probably talk to himself for a week about nothing, and the thought of having to listen to it wasn't endearing him to the idea. It was more likely that 'fine company' meant this man wanted payment of another sort. If that was the case, then Billy could feign ignorance for now, then kill the man when he got handsy. No one would be around to see or hear anything once they were far enough from town. 

He lowered his gun slowly, but kept it in hand. "Fine." 

"Excellent." The man got to his feet and brushed his hands against his thighs as he grinned crookedly at Billy. "Let's be on our way then. From the sound of it, that good citizen has done their civic duty and the sheriff will be here soon enough." 

He passed by Billy, as if there was no reason to be concerned walking so close to an armed murderer, and toward the back door. It grated that he was right in his confidence, and Billy wanted to shoot him in the leg just to prove him wrong, but he could hear the voices in the street as well, not far off. "I could still kill you." 

"You'd wait to shoot a man in the back after you already had a gun aimed at his front? I suppose you could, but it'd make your warrant more right than wrong, and I'd say anything that calls a Korean man Chinese is best left ignored." 

Damn it, now he had questions. How the hell had this man known he was Korean? Everyone here was happy to assume he was Chinese and it had never been worth the effort of correcting them. It did prove he was a bounty hunter though, and Billy would have to pay attention, make sure to turn on the man before the man turned on him. He was still the best option for escape though. Billy bared his teeth in a silent snarl of frustration and jammed his gun back in its holster as he followed the man out the back door and toward the side of the building where the horses were tied. 

 

Billy remembered that they'd slipped out of town unnoticed, the crowd headed toward the saloon coming from the opposite direction, but the details kept slipping out of his mind's grasp. He tried to remember what Goody had said to him. Tried to recapture Goodnight squinting under the glare of sunlight in that habitual way of his that always made him look a bit lost and confused. 

"You are a man sent to test the virtue of my patience and bedside manner, Mr. Rocks." 

That wasn't right. Goody never said that, and his voice had never been so feminine. Man had a falsetto like a screeching cat, this was smooth and musical and very irritated. 

"If I have to restitch any of your wounds, you'll have deserved it for trying to crawl up out of bed so soon. I swear, you give a man laudanum and he'll think he's been healed by the hand of God till he sets himself right back where he started."

Billy blinked, far slower than he'd intended, and would have drawn a gun, or a knife, anything nearby that could pass as a weapon, had his arms bothered to move. Instead, he simply stared dazedly at the unimpressed looking woman lecturing him, hands on her hips like she had a wooden spoon hidden away in the folds of her skirt and was just waiting for an excuse to crack him across the knuckles. 

"Let's get you laid back down, then. No use in ruining all our hard work in keeping you alive." She reached out to give him a hand, or just manhandle him back into lying down, and Billy panicked at the thought. 

"No." He croaked out, glad when she paused, probably surprised he was aware enough to answer. "No. Can't see him." Lifting his head away from the wall, he stared hard at her, needing her to understand. "I can't see him if I'm lying down." 

The woman (nurse? Doctor?) glanced between him and Goodnight's sleeping form, eyes widening a bit in understanding. "I see." 

How much she saw, Billy wasn't sure, nor did he care at the moment unless she meant to do something about it. There was a beat of quiet as she thought it over and he tried to keep his eyes focused. "You really shouldn't be sitting up just yet." 

"I'll just move again once you leave." Billy said, and remembered at the last moment not to attempt to shrug. 

She snorted. "I don't doubt it for a moment. Very well, if you insist on acting the fool, you should at least lean properly on the pillows so I don't find you collapsed on the floor 'cause you tipped over in your sleep." She didn't wait for his answer and set to work. With an arm around his shoulders, she eased him forward with hands far more gentle than her stern words had been, and rearranged the pillows to support him better as she leaned him back against them once more. 

It was over in moments, but Billy still had to fight down the dizziness moving caused and by the time he mentally translated a thank you from Korean to English and mumbled it out, she had already moved on to check over Faraday. Brisk and efficient, Billy could appreciate that. He missed Goody's drawn out rambling though, and tipped his head back after one last look at the man while sleep tugged at his mind. 

_No need to worry about me, mon cher,_ he imagined in Goody's voice. _You know I like to take my time waking up. Not everyone is blessed enough to spring up outta bed fresh as a daisy._

_Especially not you._ Billy would always reply, running fingers through Goodnight's sleep-ruined hair with a grin. He didn't care though, fresh as a daisy or rumpled and unkempt, as long as Goody woke up soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for a short chapter! I not only work full time now, but have two comics on pretty tight deadlines I'm working on. Sadly, this means my free time for fic writing is at a record low, but I have so much I want to write into this story so I'll keep chipping away at it. :D

It was several days later, when Billy was more lucid and less drugged to the gills, that he discovered the reason his back hurt more than the rest of his wounds. The first bullet he'd been hit with, just below his collar bone, had lodged itself under his shoulder blade, possibly causing a fracture, and the doctor had chosen to leave it be rather than risk attempting to get it back out. Vasquez had been to one to tell him, his voice disturbingly cheerful while he explained, but Billy liked to think it was because Faraday had woken up long enough to mumbled the man's name a few minutes before, and not because he'd been excited about Billy gaining a little weight in lead. 

He absently listened to Vasquez talking about the things he'd missed out on while sleeping; that Sam, Red, and Emma were all alive and Bogue was dead by Emma's hand. Billy had grinned at that part. Everything after was the rush to keep everyone they could alive, and the less dramatic efforts to rebuild the town. 

Normally, he'd want to know everything, unhappy as always when he was laid out, feeling weak and vulnerable as life went bustling on around him. Right now, he was straining to hear Goody's breathing, heavier and more labored than normal after he'd struggled through a fever brought on by infection. They'd nearly lost him, again, before the fever broke the day before, and Billy had been furious to hear it had all happen while he was mostly asleep and unaware. He'd refused to take any more laudanum after that, and as soon as the doctor had stopped glaring at him long enough to leave, he'd nearly brained himself limping over to the bed Jack had abandoned for his tent out in the field. 

It was all of ten feet away, but Billy managed it, if barely, and returned the doctor's glare triumphantly when she finds him sprawled gracelessly on top of the covers where he'd landed. 

He found out her name the same day, when Vasquez had sauntered in halfway through her threats to let him bleed out from his own stupidity if he tore her stitches. He'd grinned like a wolf at Billy's predicament, but greeted the doctor politely with a mild, "Doctor Patterson."

She'd paused long enough to nod at him, her expression warm for a moment before she turned back to Billy with a scowl. "Mr. Rocks, I understand your concern, but Mr. Robacheux will be fine. The infection was mild and the fever broke last night. Honestly, I'd've expected much worse considering you two were determined to air out your innards. You've all made it this far. Try putting a little faith in my ability to keep you here for the time being, would you?" 

Billy knew he'd reverted back to what Goody liked to call his 'most impressive level of unrepentant assholery', he always did when he felt like the rest of his defenses had been taken from him. Anger was his crutch, he knew it, but that knowledge didn't keep his reactions from going instinctively aggressive, especially not while he was all but incapacitated and Goody still hadn't woken up. He also knew he owed this woman and her skills his life. Goody's life. And he'd repaid it so far with a foul attitude. A decade ago he wouldn't have given a shit, but a decade ago he'd also been a sad excuse of a functioning human being, so there was that. 

"Thank you." He said, voice rough and tone a bit flat, but more gentle than aggressive so he counted it as a win. 

Doubly so when Doctor Patterson actually paused, surprised enough to lose the deep frown before she narrowed her eyes at him. "What for, exactly?"

During her earlier lecture, Billy had managed to get himself sitting somewhat upright against the pillows, and he took deep even breaths to keep from panting like he'd just run a few miles. "For everything." He replied, soft and sincere.

She stared at him for a moment, as if she was waiting for him to follow up with a smart remark and ruin the moment, but Billy merely looked back at her, his anger at his own situation, at his weakness, at Goody's lack of movement, at the whole damn world, it was still there, but he wouldn't let it take over. Not again. After a drawn out moment, where Billy could practically feel Vasquez's curious stare, she nodded and moved on to check over Faraday's bandages. 

Now, a few hours later, here he was with Vasquez occasionally chatting from his chair near Faraday's bed, contemplating whether laying on his side or stomach would be less painful and trying to guess how long he'd be able to stay still before inevitably rolling onto his back and waking himself up.

"Are you still angry at him?" Vasquez asked, seemingly at random, while Billy was weighing the price of pain if he attempted to punch some shape back into his pillow. He grunted and stared at Vasquez until the man clarified. "For running off." 

Billy stared at him for a long minute, but Vasquez just returned it evenly, apparently content to wait. "No." Billy finally said. 

Vasquez waited, growing impatient in the following silence. Billy watched his left eyelid twitch a little and refused to let his amusement show on his face. "That's it? He runs off and you don't care?" 

Oh, Billy had cared. He'd been furious over the fact that he cared enough about this pitiable spit of a town not to just leave it in the dust. He'd tossed back shot after shot to keep from going out and hunting Goodnight down, but it wouldn't have helped with the state either of them had been in. Goody was facing threats Billy couldn't throw a knife at, and that night he'd been overwhelmed by them. It wasn't the first time they'd run from a gunfight, but it had been the first time Goody had gone without him. 

Vasquez had thrown himself back into his chair with a snort and roll of his eyes, head turned to watch Faraday with a frown, by the time Billy decided to answer. "I did the same to him once." 

He didn't bother to watch Vasquez's reaction beyond the initial surprise. Turned his head to look at Goodnight instead. Wondered if that incident had even crossed Goody's mind when he rode out of town, then right back in again. Probably not. Goody would say they were night and day, completely different circumstances. The man would drown himself in guilt given half a chance. Billy would just have to remind him how similar they were. They'd both run out of fear when it came down to it. The difference was, Billy hadn't come back. 

"You left him?" Vasquez asked, pulling Billy from his thoughts. "Why did you go back?" 

Billy kept his eyes on Goodnight, skin too pale under the hints of peeling sunburn, hair limp against the pillow, looking too goddamn still and frail. "I didn't. He found me." 

There must have been something in his tone, because Vasquez paused at that with a curious noise at the back of his throat, but didn't ask any further questions. Which was all well and good because Billy had no intention of giving him any more answers. He gave up the pillow as a lumpy lost cause and curled up carefully on his side, staring at Goodnight's profile and listening to Vasquez settle down against his chair with a creak and a huff. 

The light from the windows turned orange, dimming with the sunset, and Billy's wounds began to itch and ache with nothing to distract himself with. He scowled at nothing in particular and let his mind wander back. Back to when sore thighs from long days of riding, a deep mistrust of his travel companion, and a lost horseshoe were his only immediate issues. 

A day and a half out of another dusty little spit of a town, one they'd wisely chosen not to sleep in after a few men had given Billy cold stares that lingered long enough to tip from the usual racism into possibly-seen-his-wanted-poster territory. They should have been further, but Billy's horse had lost a shoe and they'd had to slow their pace as Billy walked beside his horse, fuming at the circumstances as Goodnight refused to shut the hell up. 

"Now, I'm not one to shy away from more adventurous meal options when choicer meats are slim pickin's, but I'd appreciate the chef being an honest sort about it at least!" Goodnight was rambling on, one hand holding the reigns, the other waving around as if he could conjure up a visual aid if Billy wasn't up to imagining the scenario he'd described in detail. Far too much detail. No one needed to describe the exact type of wood paneling in a smoke-stained saloon somewhere in West Kentucky. Apparently, no one had told Goodnight this. 

Billy glared at the horizon, heat blurring the line of it in shimmery waves. He glared at the horse, which in turn ignored him, and glared at Goodnight, who never. Stopped. Talking. 

"I'd bet the bullets in my rifle the meat in that stew was of the rodent variety, because it was most decidedly not rabbit." Goodnight had his eyes closed, lost in the memory of his possibly rat-filled stew, a hint of a frown twitching at the edges of his mouth. He fell silent for several short, blissful minutes before he seemed to shake off whatever thoughts had caught him. "Now my mother, she could make a hell of a rabbit stew." 

It was alarming, how often Billy wished for the delirium of his near-death trek through Russian desert. At least then he hadn't been in any state to listen to this. It was as much a shock to himself as it appeared to be to Goodnight when he actually responded. "Your mother didn't have a servant to cook?" 

The look of sheer surprise that got him was almost worth the slip-up. That was the look of a man who'd just realized he'd let something important slip without meaning too. What it was, Billy had no idea, but he was too tired, hot, and ready to stab something--or someone--to care.

"Ah, well," Goodnight floundered a bit, fingers twitching, his free hand still held up mid-motion, before he gathered himself together, cloaked in amiable personality and elaborate mannerisms once more. "With a skill like hers, it's be a waste not to use it." 

Billy waited for more, resigned to it, and side-eyed Goodnight suspiciously when he stayed quiet. He noticed Goodnight's hands trembling. A white-knuckled grip on the reigns belying his otherwise relaxed posture, and Billy wondered, not for the first time, what sort of troubled soul he'd ended up with. It was past time he cut his ties before this man brought down some of those troubles onto Billy.

That night, after Goodnight had regained his composure enough to pick up another topic or five to elaborate far too much about, they settled around a small fire under the wide expanse of starry sky and drank. Billy kept up a pretense of tipping his flask back almost as many times as Goodnight did, but only took a few sips, his lips pressed shut behind the mouth of the flask most of the time. 

Goodnight was a sharp man, despite his tremors and shifty eyes. He might have noticed Billy's trick if he wasn't already halfway blitzed on his own mixture of bourbon and what Billy suspected was more than a small splash of laudanum. As it was, Goodnight had forgotten to finish he sentences three times in the past ten minutes or so, and could barely keep his eyes open. He nodded when those bleary eyes looked his way, uncomfortable with how earnest they were, and it was all the encouragement Goodnight needed to continue. I was half in French, so Billy had stopped paying attention a while ago, but Goodnight didn't need much in the way of a reaction, and just a couple of hours later, the man was sprawled under a blanket and snoring softly. 

Quietly as possible, Billy gathered his things, carefully monitoring Goodnight's breathing to make sure he didn't stir. He'd seen Goodnight wake up startled, and it was always with a gun in hand. A drunk with a twitchy finger aiming a pistol at him was the last thing Billy wanted, but the drink seemed to have done it's trick, because Goodnight hadn't stirred once by the time Billy had saddled and loaded Goodnight's horse with all of his own belongings. Goodnight might put up chase, but Billy hadn't taken any of his money, what he had was his cut of the earnings as per their deal, or done Goodnight any harm the man wasn't willing to do to himself first. Even if he did try to catch Billy, he'd still be stuck with a shoe-less horse several days out of town. 

Billy could do a lot with that kind of head start. With that in mind, he walked the horse far enough to keep from waking Goodnight, making sure to lead her along sandier ground so her hooves wouldn't hit rock and make noise. As soon as he was out of immediate earshot, Billy swung himself up into the saddle and headed east without looking back.


End file.
